The Mad Author's avatar was a being of pure, narrative chaos. It didn't move in a straight line. It flickered, it glitched, its form stuttering through a dozen different, impossible geometries at once. It was a living, weaponized plot twist.
The Glass Curator, a being of perfect, unchanging order, stood its ground. It did not raise a weapon. It simply… existed. Its perfect, logical form was a bastion of pure, conceptual stability.
The two opposites met. The collision was not a physical explosion. It was a metaphysical paradox. The very fabric of the silent, glass world groaned under the strain of two incompatible stories trying to occupy the same page. The black, mirrored surface of the planet shattered, breaking into a million floating shards of reflective glass.
Kael and Lyra were thrown back, their small, coherent reality tossed about in a sea of conceptual warfare.
